


Ruh-Roh! A Love Story With Fangs

by draculard



Category: British Singers RPF, Dracula - Bram Stoker, Scooby Doo - All Media Types
Genre: College AU, Human AU, Human Scooby Doo, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangle, M/M, Professor Dracula, Shyness, Student David Bowie, Takes Place in 1982
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27891388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Poor college student David Bowie can't catch a break. His new Ceramics professor Dracula is a real tight-ass, and the other students don't think David can fit in. Maybe the only bright spot in his life is the cute mechanic who lives next door, with the big puppy-dog eyes. But is Scooby all that he seems? Or does he have an ulterior motive to get close to David?...and why is he so interested in Professor Dracula?
Relationships: David Bowie/Dracula, David Bowie/Scooby-Doo
Kudos: 1





	Ruh-Roh! A Love Story With Fangs

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr. I'm draculard on there too.

David Bowie sprinted across campus, holding onto his stylish round glasses so that they wouldn’t fall off. His blond hair bounced luxuriously as he ran. David was thirty-five years old and an international rock star, meaning he already stood out from the other students. Most people who met him on campus assumed he was a professor. The last thing he needed was to be late to class today, especially because his first class was Ceramics with Professor Dracula, and everyone said Professor Dracula was a dick.

His loafers smacked against the floor as he rounded the hall, and there it was, the door to Ceramics class. David ground to a halt and caught his breath, peering in through the little window. Class was already in session, from what he could tell; a handsome man with jet black hair and a widow’s peak stood before a group of about two dozen youths, demonstrating how to work a wheel. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing bulging, muscular forearms and a beautiful wildflower tattoo that curled up from his wrist.

David’s heart was thumping. He swallowed hard and pushed open the door an inch at a time, trying to sneak in. But despite his best efforts and his ballerina-like skills with grace and stealth, the professor’s eyes were on him immediately. David gulped as those eyes narrowed into a glare.

“Ah, Mr. Bowie,” said the prof with a thick Bulgarian accent. “How nice of you to join us.”

David pushed back his nerves and gave the professor a bright, confident smile that in no way represented how he was really feeling. “Glad to be here,” he said in a charming English accent. A few of the other students looked at him curiously.

“I suppose international rock stars don’t need to follow class schedules,” said Professor Dracula, his voice silky and dangerous. David’s smile disappeared. He couldn’t think of anything to say in response, so he said nothing, slipping into the group of students with his ears on fire from embarrassment (not literally on fire).

“As I was saying,” Professor Dracula snapped, turning back to the wheel. David closed his eyes in relief as his blush only spread. Professor Dracula’s smooth voice faded into the background, leaving David with nothing to focus on but his humiliation.

He was going to hate this class.

* * *

David’s day was much more bearable once he finished with Professor Dracula’s class. The other classes were busy but not too challenging, and the professors didn’t make much of David’s pop star identity. The other students, for the most part, didn’t seem to recognize him -- or maybe they did, but dismissed the idea that The Real David Bowie could be attending their university.

At the end of the day, David trudged back to his tiny off-campus flat. He lived next to a 7-11 and a mechanic’s shop; the bright lights and the smell of oil always managed to give him a headache. David slipped inside his apartment complex and decided to check his mail before going up.

He grabbed a stack of junk mail from his mailbox and turned to leave, but before he could take a single step, he was bowled over. David’s glasses went flying and he squinted up at the person hulking over him.

“Ruh-roh!” the person said, covering his face in embarrassment. David looked around for his glasses and spotted them a few feet away. He reached out for them, but the stranger grabbed them before he could and handed them to David, helping him up. His hands were broad and callused, sending a tingle up David’s spine. Once on his feet, David got a really good look at the stranger.

He was incredibly tall and muscular, like some sort of Great Dane in human form. His hair was short and brown; his eyes were puppy-like, soulful, and amber-colored. For the second time that day, David’s heart gave a painful lurch.

The stranger swallowed nervously, looking miserable. “Rorry,” he said in a soft voice. David strained to hear him.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

The stranger said nothing, and eventually David sidestepped him, heading toward the elevator. As the doors shut and he began his ascent to the fifth floor, David wondered if he would ever see the handsome stranger again. With a sigh, he dismissed the thought. He was absolutely bogged down with Ceramics essays that were due the next day. He simply didn’t have time to dream about romance.

* * *

The next day went about as wrong as could be. David’s manager woke him up with a 4 a.m. phone call to say his latest album wasn’t selling very well. He’d ended his tour for Scary Monsters by announcing his intentions to go back to school and get a degree in Rock Stardom (with a minor in agriscience) and it just hadn’t gone over very well with his fans. Plus his manager suspected the inclusion of a secret bonus track, “I Went Back to School for Agriscience And So Should You,” had maybe rubbed some people the wrong way.

Because of this, David’s manager informed him with a regretful sigh, he’d need to either get his music career back on track or kiss his royalties goodbye (contracts were iffy back then). David lay in bed long after the phone call ended with his phone cradled against his bare chest and his finger twisted ‘round the cord. He stared up at the ceiling blankly, his glasses off and his mood depressed, as he ran through the bits and snatches of music and lyrics he’d composed lately. None of it was close to completion; it wasn’t that he’d lost his spark -- he’d never truly lose his love for music -- but he couldn’t deny that he’d waned in interest a little.

Over time, he realized he wouldn’t be getting any sleep, so he dragged himself out of bed and carefully folded his commemorative Jean-Michael Basquiat coverlet and prepared himself for a bit of study before school.

Hunched over his tiny dining room table and dressed in a fetchingly cozy sweater that totally accentuated his hair and fine bone structure, David studied his notes from Ceramics class. Professor Dracula was a serious taskmaster in the classroom, and there were dreadful rumors that if you didn’t do well on the wheel, he moved you to a  _ different  _ kind of wheel (the torture-y kind) and sucked your blood. Like, in front of the whole class. How humiliating!

David spent perhaps an hour studying and then finally rubbed his itchy eyes and stretched. It was time to really start his day. Not being able to afford breakfast (look up David Bowie’s financial woes in the late 70s for further information), David shucked his coat on and headed downstairs with an empty stomach. 

On his way out, he stumbled waifishly on the stairs and paused, blinking past the wall of static that had appeared before his eyes due to low blood pressure. As he clung to the banister, he was startled to feel a light touch on his forearm.

“Ruh-roh,” said that same soft, fetching voice from the day before. “Roo rokay?”

David blinked furiously until he could see the handsome, shy young man before him. The man was dressed in a mechanic’s uniform and was up early, but unlike David, he looked well-rested and well-fed. 

“I’m fine, thank you,” David said. He felt a pang of minor loss when the other man moved away. Something inside David lurched at the thought of this man leaving, and he heard himself blurt out, “What’s your name? I didn’t get the chance to ask you yesterday.”

The other man looked down at his shoes, a faint pink blush covering his cheeks. “Rooby,” he murmured.

“Ruby?” David tried the name out. The young man shook his head and then tapped his name badge, which David had somehow not noticed before. In large capital letters, it read ‘Scooby.’ 

“Scooby,” David corrected himself, liking the exotic spice of it on his tongue. “What’s your surname, Scooby?”

Blushing even more furiously, the young man forced himself to meet David’s eyes with something like bashful defiance, as though he thought he might be judged for his name. “Rooby Roo.”

Using the patterns he’d already noticed, David could only guess this came out to Scooby Scoo. He wasn’t quite confident enough to try it out aloud, so he just gave Scooby a confident nod.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you again, Scooby,” he said instead. “I’m David Bowie. I attend university just across the road.”

Scooby gave a measured nod; it gave David the impression that he already knew all this. They stared at each other a moment, both a little awkward and a little shy; David felt he should say something, but didn’t know quite what. He already knew what kind of relationship he wanted to pursue with this soulful young man, and it wasn’t friendship -- but how did one go about that sort of thing in non-rockstar circles? He couldn’t just offer Scooby some coke and take him upstairs, could he?

At a loss, David found himself lapsing into silence, and he could only nod in chagrin when Scooby pulled away reluctantly and gestured to his watch.

“I rotta ro,” Scooby said.

“Of course,” said David. He let Scooby step past him down the stairs. “I’ll see you later, then?”

Scooby threw a surprised look over his shoulder at David -- surprised, but not unwilling. His lips tugged upward in a shy smile that seemed almost coy.

“Rokay,” he said softly.

David couldn’t help but smile. “Rokay,” he said. 

And he went to class feeling much lighter than before.

* * *

Because this was a very weird school (and also because I’ve never been to college and I’m not sure how classes work), David had Ceramics again that day. That’s plausible I think. He headed to the class full of dread, with his lack of sleep and empty stomach weighing heavily on his mind. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the doorknob.

There was no one there yet, giving him his pick of the desks. Hesitant to claim a spot someone else had already claimed, David figured it was safest to move close to the front, where people were less likely to sit -- he hadn’t gotten a good look at the seating arrangements the day before. He was sitting there wearily looking over his notes when the door to Professor Dracula’s office squeaked open and the ominous man himself seemed to glide into the room. A bit of fog billowed in at his feet, and the brief squeak of something that sounded like bats made David look up in alarm.

“Mr. Bowie…” said Professor Dracula, his voice dripping with disapproval. “You are here early.”

David’s cheeks began to heat in pre-emptive embarrassment. Professor Dracula couldn’t possibly be mad at him for arriving  _ early _ , could he? He stared awkwardly at Dracula, unsure what to say, and watched as the other man folded his arms into his cool Victorian-era cloak.

“You look … pale,” said Professor Dracula, his face dark. “Bloodless.”

He pronounced the word with sharp consonants and heavy vowels. David nodded sheepishly.

“I’m English,” he explained.

Professor Dracula looked him up and down. “English, yes…” he murmured. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought; his eyes took on a distant cast and a hint of sadness that David couldn’t explain. But the sight of it tugged at his heart and made him think … maybe this professor wasn’t as bad as he seemed.

That thought ignited into fireworks a moment later when Professor Dracula turned his attention back to David and pulled something from inside his cloak. He handed it to David, who stared in amazement and disbelief at the object in Professor Dracula’s hands.

It was a cup of coffee. Just a simple cup of coffee.

But God, David had never needed one more.

He took it gratefully, cupping his hands around the warm ceramic and letting the steam cascade over his face. He closed his eyes, inhaling the aroma for a long moment before he took his first sip. It was heavenly, the best coffee he’d ever tasted (and he’d sampled tons of Nespresso from the 7/11 next to his apartment, so he was kind of an expert).

“You like?” asked Professor Dracula.

“Yes,” David breathed, the taste of coffee thick on his tongue. 

“I made the mug myself,” said Professor Dracula.

David supposed the mug was okay too.

“I like it,” he assured Dracula. He took another deep draft of coffee and tried not to moan at how good it was. “I really like it. Thank you. Sincerely.”

He made eye contact with Professor Dracula, who endured it for only a moment before averting his eyes. He seemed almost embarrassed by David’s thanks.

“Don’t mention it,” he said harshly, turning away. 

Was it possible, David wondered, that he was not mean, but just shy? He stared at Professor Dracula in wonder. The coffee had been a kind gesture, one David had never expected from someone so stern and exacting. He watched as Professor Dracula warmed up his wheel and shaped a lump of clay, his forearms tensing, his muscles jumping.

A blush warmed David’s cheeks again. As he sipped his coffee, he couldn’t help but wonder what other secrets Professor Dracula was hiding. 


End file.
